Sharks Don't Drown
by KinkyEyepatchShit
Summary: In which Erik barfs up nearly his left nut, Charles is a smarmy brat, it's ballnumbing cold and wet and it's the start of a most beautiful friendship. Set in X Class after the sub fiasco and the near drowning of one Nazi Hunter.


Upon being rescued from a watery grave, it wasn't tremendous joy of being alive that wracked Erik's broad shouldered frame; it was a combination of desire to murder the tiny English man that had fished him from the deep, [and he could too, so fucking easily grasp the pale, drenched face between his hands and squeeze until it popped like a grape, or wrap his fingers around the slender neck and twist till he gasped and gurgled, wide and impossibly blue eyes crinkling in forever sleep] nausea that somersaulted in the pit of his gut, and most of all complete and utter failure. It shook and jostled him harder than any oceans current, seized him swifter than any jumbled not his thoughts that washed over him in the icy water, the _dontdienotaloneyou'renotalone I've got you calmyourmind please_ that shook him to the core.

He had been so fucking close he had the sweet taste of victory dancing on his tongue, mixed with the copper of his own blood and the salt of the sea. So close and so quickly it'd slipped through his fingers much like the chains sweeping through the waves, going, going, _gone._ His single chance mangled in an instant and it _hurt._ It was a hurt that spread and burned and ached and _tore_, this single failure choked him so thoroughly and fiercely that he could barely draw in a necessary breath past shuddery lungs- save for the breath needed to promptly vomit over the side of the boat.

As luck would have it, there were whispy treacherous thoughts to accompany the rocketing of his knees and the trembling of his arms hanging over the railing of the boat [all of which could easily be blamed on the numb balls, trickle of ice creeping up his spine and not the breakdown of his entire goddamn being, no way jose, no sir]. Treacherous thoughts that acknowledged he was still so very weak and how that was precisely why he had failed his mother, his people; he was still just that terrified boy stretching his boney fingers as far as they could for that barbwire fence looming in the distance. That was why he hesitated. An even quieter voice nagged in the darkest corner of his mind where no light could splinter in, admitting that he should have died in the watery depths. Go home or die trying. [Where was home? Countless hotels blurring together, the final resting places of those on his list?.]

However that fleeting thought of the end of everything and the symphony of his vomiting was overpowered by the hand slowly, soothingly rubbing circles down his back, armed with enough warmth to spare and disperse through the drenched wet suit clinging to his chilled bones and down to the very tips of his toes. That and the distinct sensation of a caress at the edge of his mind, like a steaming cup of sweet honeyed chamomile tea at his fingertips- mind tips. He abruptly straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, and turned to face his savior only to sag into the equally damn warm arms that braced his descent a splitsecond later, the same calming voice seeping into his ears like the water below. _I've got you, you're not alone anymore, I'm here, I've got you Erik._ As he sank into blissful oblivion he almost believed that damn nagging English cad.

When he regained consciousness sometime later he felt rested, body thrumming with an ache only a restful slumber could provide. The sensation was most strange and hadn't been a part of him in countless [well, always counting, always drawing the numbers shorter and shorter and closer] years. His eyelids cracked open, thick lashes giving way to stormy gray orbs suddenly faced with a pair of incredibly blue baby blues searching his sleepy gaze.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, my friend," The other man said by way of hello, nimble fingers pressed to a temple covered in rich dark curls, a pleasant crinkle of his mouth adding to the homely affect.

Erik found himself reluctant to sit up and draw away from the warmth and peace of unconsciousness. Today [what even was today? It was getting harder and harder to tally the days in the jumble of movement and clouded thoughts, aside from knowing _this was going to be the day_] was only getting stranger and stranger, and if Erik was the sort to get his suspenders in a bunch over a relocation such as this, this quickly, he would wear them more often. There was always a brief gracing period before the shit would fly in the form of, most likely, a dinner fork to the skull. For the moment he propped himself up on his elbows and managed to knuckle the sleep from his eyes, eventually to aim a leveling glower at the newcomer.

"So you're the brat that kept me from what I want. I was doing just fine, hardly the need for your bothersome and unnecessary meddling." A _growlsnarlhuff_ tumbled out of Erik's mouth, sleep far from his mind now that the haze had cleared, despair forgotten. For the moment.

The other man was nonplussed, his smarmy grin widening, blue eyes twinkling with amusement [and further within those depths, sympathy, damn him]. "Hardly the need to prove that even Sharks can drown under such circumstances, my friend. It's not worth dying for."

That was when Erik summoned the strength to jolt to a sitting position, brows furrowed and another growl bubbling forth. "You don't know anything! And I'm not your _friend_ you little _bastard._"

That fucking smile brightened. Try as he might huff and puff but the other man wasn't deterred. "No. But you_ will_I know you, murmured a familiar touch within his mind.

Erik didn't know whether to slug the bastard for his smartassed retort or laugh at the sheer stones he had. [Perhaps he had finally snapped and the stress had left him unhinged like a gaping wound.] Thus he started with the latter and planned to work his way up to the former all in due time.


End file.
